


Masks Of Prometheus

by Wikiaddicted723



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:04:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wikiaddicted723/pseuds/Wikiaddicted723
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...this thing she feels for shady, sarcastic, arrogant, sweet, tender, flawed and broken Peter Bishop has many names, but only love is adequate." another coda to 6B</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masks Of Prometheus

The moment they cross the threshold into his room, his slightly damp hand still firmly in her own, he stops her. It’s an imperceptible stiffening of the tendons and muscles in his hand, a simple shift in the position of his bones against her own, but it’s enough to make her turn back to look at him in the moonlit room, her gaze questioning as she bites her lip from the inside, worrying the soft skin in an unconscious display of the turmoil still inside her.

 

He smiles in reassurance, twisting his grip on her hand as he brings it up to press a lingering kiss against her palm. He watches as she closes her eyes, the muscles in her neck tensing minutely as she swallows slowly; he takes the last step towards her, bringing his other hand to rest on her cheek, stroking it slowly with his fingertips, feeling her lean into his touch, he tilts her chin up softly, making her look up into his eyes. He won’t push her into anything she’s not completely sure she wants to give. He would have, he thinks, had he been the same man she met in Iraq what seems like a lifetime ago, the man who took what he wanted and never allowed himself to care (caring could kill you, he’d learned early on. He’d valued his life too much.); but time wears away even the sturdiest of masks, and she’s always been able to see past all of his. He’d stopped being that man long ago, perhaps the moment he witnessed the lengths the woman before him would go for the man she’d loved just because, in her words, _‘ he’d do it for her’._

 

He’d wanted, perhaps selfishly, to be that man. To bask in a love so deep, so ferocious, that it became something he couldn’t live without. To have someone want him for what he was and not for what he could give. He had long been the asset no one would turn down, the ace under hands that provided him with his most basic needs and wants in exchange of things he didn’t have to make an effort to give.

She’d pushed him, made him work to become the man he could be, and he’d ruined it. He still doesn’t know by what miracle he’s been given a second chance, but he’s not about to let her slip through his fingers twice. And he won’t deny her, if this is what she wants; he has never been able to. He won’t deny himself it’s what _he_ wants either, even if he questions her wisdom.  He wants forgiveness; he doubts he deserves it. He doubts he’ll ever be man enough to be worthy of her, after all he’s done and _not_ done; he’s willing to die trying.

 

Before he can even start to say what he wants her to hear she brings her hands out of his grasp and hugs him to her, pressing her ear against his heart as she nuzzles his neck, breathing him in like he’s air and she’s drowning. The steady beat comforts her, assures her of her surroundings, her universe and her place in it, lets her know that he’s as real as he’s ever been, from her perspective. He has always been her rock, her tether to sanity in a world that no longer recognizes up from down or left from right. She’s seen the expression on his face, followed the direction of his thoughts from the look in the pools of his eyes. She doesn’t want him to doubt himself; she has doubted him enough. She feels a sense of peace invade her in his embrace, his arms now tightly wound around her, his lips against the top of her head; a peace she hasn’t felt since that day in Jacksonville, when the world they’d thought they knew had come crashing down on both of them. It’s the peace she longed for Over There, in that solitary confinement cell when she’d clung onto everything that was him and that she’d not allowed herself to have. The peace she’d so desperately wanted to feel when she’d come back and that she’d (unwittingly) denied them both.

 

She’s tired of waiting.

 

She presses a kiss to his pulse point, her lips parted in a lingering caress that spreads wildfire through his veins, makes him clutch her tighter against him, swallowing hard. He’s nervous, she realizes. It only makes her want him more.

 

“ ‘Livia,” he says, his voice rough, shaky, his fingers tight on the fabric of her coat, “nothing has to happen”

 

She smiles against him, his words igniting a fire in her that has nothing to do with the sexual heat he’s sure to produce in her, bringing one of her hands up to run through his stubble tenderly as she angles his head down to hers, catching his lower lip between her own, nibbling softly at it with her teeth; he groans, stumbling a little against her. It makes her feel more powerful than any amount of drugs coursing through her veins, makes her feel desirable, complete, unburdened.

 

“I want this,” she whispers against his lips, the quiet of the night compelling her to keep her voice in hushed tones as she peppers kisses on his lips, frustrating his attempts at speech “ I want this.” The moment the words leave her mouth a second time his lips descend on hers, his kiss slow, languid, unhurried. It feels as if they’ve done this for years, and yet the feeling of wonder remains. It feels right.

 

She has no trouble, then, imagining what it would be like to still be here, with him, twenty years down the road. She doubts they’ll get as much, but she’d take whatever they gave her if it meant he’d be beside her, because at some point in the twisted road her feet have followed, Peter Bishop became the only thing she wants.

 

He brings one of his hands to her face, his fingers splayed on her cheek as he gradually deepens the kiss, mapping her lips with the tip of his tongue, tasting the vague remnants of whiskey on the soft, plump flesh as she allows him entrance, feeling her respond to him in equal measure, a small whimper escaping her lips. He relishes in the balance, the reciprocity of the steady give and take of her lips on his, the synchronicity in the movements of their still clothed bodies as they press against each other, the depth of emotion that mere closeness ignites in him, and he wonders how he could have let himself be fooled by the physical whirlwind of her alternate. It had been sex, with her, a transaction in the oldest sense he realizes now, nothing else. Nothing like _this_.

 

Sometimes he wishes she’d take her gun and shoot him for his stupidity, he knows he deserves much more. He’s supposed to be a genius, but (even if he would never dare to believe it exonerates him of the guilt and the shame) he guesses his body works the same way as the rest of the male population on any universe. He doesn’t have – by design – enough blood in his body to run both his head and, well, his _head_ , at the same time. He blames Prometheus. And himself.

 

Olivia isn’t stupid. She knows that, even if she wants to, nothing they do will be able to keep _her_ away from this moment, from both their minds. She knows (and she can’t deny the knowledge hurts) that it would be ludicrous to ask him not to compare because she knows him, knows how he thinks, how his genius mind thrives on connection, association, conjecture and postulation, knows that as much as he tries, as much as he works against himself to make this moment solely _theirs_ , some part of his mind will do the job for him, in real time.

 

 She didn’t lie, when she said she was not afraid anymore; that doesn’t mean she’s not nervous too. But she sees the wonder in his eyes, feels the reverence of his touch on her skin, the delicate yet intense press of his lips against her own as his fingers make a trail towards her neck, and she can’t keep the warm glow of affection from settling on her chest because she knows that he’s choosing her. That perhaps it was never a choice, just a momentary, involuntary deviation on the road that has pitched them together in parallel orbits through probability and chance. She feels for him things that she has never imagined herself capable of, knows the depths of her affection for him, the intensity she wants him with, his safe presence rooted deep in everything that defines her, realizes that it can be called many names, this thing she feels for shady, sarcastic, arrogant, sweet, tender, flawed and broken Peter Bishop, but only love is adequate. She only wishes she were brave enough to say it out loud. But that would come, in time; she has never been a coward for too long.

 

She weaves her fingers through his hair, the soft brown beginnings of would – be curls running through her digits like water as she scratches his scalp lightly with her nails, feeling a shudder run through him as a soft gasp makes its way from his mouth to hers. And just like that, she transforms the undercurrent of feeling coursing through them into a raging fire, the potential energy between them evolving into kinetic as he lets go of her face to clutch her more tightly against him, pressing her hips into his as his other hand comes to unbutton the heavy coat she has yet to remove, his fingers fumbling as his lips abandon hers in favor of leaving a trail of slow, smoldering kisses down her jaw line, descending on the expanse of her neck, making her fist her hands against the back of his sweater, her arms around his shoulders, her mouth resting against the space between his shoulder and neck. He reins himself in, holding on to his control, he has learned the value of patience, and he’s determined not to rush this. Tonight, he has all the time in the world.

 

He grabs a hold of her arms then, separating her from him just enough to slip his hands inside her black blazer, his palms rubbing fiery paths against her clavicle, the top of her shoulders and her upper back as he pushes the garment away from her body, the coat going with it, both falling to the ground in a heap; she can no longer feel the chill in the room. The scarf follows, and it’s her turn to slip her hands under the fabric of both his sweater and shirt, her hands meeting the soft cotton cloth of his undershirt. She smiles softly. He’s layered even in the way he dresses, she thinks, amused. She pulls upwards and he raises his arms to facilitate the process, the dark green fabric soon lost somewhere in the darkness of the room, and she remembers with both sadness and pride the last time she saw him like this, in that building, when she’d thought she’d lost something she’d never really had, lost him to the whims of the virus they’d been trying to contain; but she’d saved him from himself, as he’d done for her so many times in the past. It is only him now, before her (he looks adorable, she thinks, his hair disheveled, lips slightly swollen, look expectant), no virus, no glimmer. Just Peter.

 

She grabs his belt next, the weight of the metal buckle reassuring in her hand as she unfastens it, pulls the leather towards her, freeing it from the loops of his dark jeans before letting it join the rest of their removed clothes on the floor with a soft thud, he lets out a chuckle, she looks at him.

 

“So straightforward…” he says, shaking his head, mischief alight in his eyes. She laughs, she’d missed that spark in him, that joie de vivre that could eclipse the sun, and she rejoices in his warmth.

 

“Well, it _had_ to go at one point or another,” she says, equally unabashed, this easy banter is familiar, comfortable, as precious to her as the intense emotions under the surface of his eyes, his fingertips, as he graces her neck and moves down to the collar of her shirt; this is them. He laughs with her; the corner of his eyes crinkling adorably as he smiles, and it’s the most beautiful sound she’s heard in a while.

 

He brings his head down to rest under her chin, his shoulders hunched as he bites her throat softly, his teeth scraping slowly against the creamy skin covering the hollow of her throat. She gasps, holds his shoulders tight enough that she’s half – sure she’s hurt him, but then his tongue flickers, tracing the path of his teeth to soothe the tender skin, and she hurts him some more, holding onto him to avoid her sure collision against the ground now that her legs have turned to mush. He doesn’t mind in the least, his arms coming around her waist to hold her up, turning her around to press her against the wall with the expanse of his body, steadying her, not a breath of air between them except, of course, their clothes. She can feel him against her, all of him, as close as he’s ever been, his now obvious arousal announcing itself against her thigh with a steady pressure, and she can’t help the full – body blush that extends itself from the pit of her stomach and covers her body with goosebumps. It’s been a while for her.

 

 She drags her nails against his scalp again, harder, wanting to give him back a measure of the heat pooling in her stomach, kissing his forehead affectionately as the good kind of shivers rack his body and reverberate through hers, his hands stumbling in their process of unbuttoning her blouse as his body tenses, his muscles coiling in anticipation. He closes his eyes, his breathing ragged, resting his head on her shoulder as he finally manages to part her shirt, pulling her slightly from the wall to remove it an let it fall to the ground, his warm hands pressed flush against the taut flesh of her abdomen and it’s her turn to shiver, the muscle under her skin contracting and releasing involuntarily under his palms, the perfect blend of soft over hard. He peppers kisses on her chest, across her collarbones, over the tops of her breasts, dragging his mouth in a senseless pattern that has her breathing heavily against him, his stubble scratching against her skin pleasantly, her chest heaving slightly against his, his body now braced against the wall by one of his hands as he steals a look at her face and finds her staring at him, her eyes half –lidded, wide pupils rimmed by impossible green that trace his figure in wonder, as if she can’t believe he’s really here, that he wants her, that it has always been her. He’s amazed at her ignorance of the power she holds over him, her lack of belief in her own prowess, her insurmountable beauty, both outward and inward. He wishes he could make her see herself as he sees her.

 

Her hands come down to his waist, her palms rubbing against the cloth of his shirt as she runs them with a consistent pressure down his chest. She fists the soft material in her hands, pulling it up and away from his pants as she slips her hands between the fabric and his warm skin, the shock of her cooler palms against his flesh standing his body hair on end as he stares into her eyes.

 

“Up,” she murmurs, a bashful smile on her lips as she tugs at his shirt impatiently when he doesn’t respond, still staring at her. He shakes himself, raises his arms to allow her to divest him of the garment, watching her watch him as she splays both hands on his chest, playing with the sparse chest hair she finds there. It’s not the first time she’s seen him without a shirt, far from it, what with having made it tradition for her to barge into the Bishop’s shared hotel room at ungodly hours of the night to call them to action on those early days, but she had never allowed herself to indulge in thoughts of him in this capacity then, be it because of John  - as it had certainly been in the beginning – or because she’d felt too comfortable with their easy partnership to compromise it. But now she can stare all she wants, and she can touch.

 

She has always silently admired Peter, his mind especially, but also his body. He’s well built, proportionate, charming in a boyish fashion that is only betrayed by the weight of his gaze; he has the body of a runner, which she finds ironic in it’s truth, his legs potent, lean muscle, his hands and wrists strong, agile. He’s firm under her hands, and she knows the strength of those limbs, can feel the taut muscle beneath his skin even if he’s a bit plump around the edges; well defined, though not overtly so. She finds it fitting, and everything Peter. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

He reaches up with his hand, touching her face, pulling her forward as he plays with the ends of her hair; she leans in, separating her back from the wall to give him better access as he undoes the ponytail, freeing her hair to cascade around her shoulders, framing her face, her chest flushed. She has never looked more beautiful to him. He snakes his hand up her back slowly, feeling the tremors of desire run through the soft flesh against his fingers as he nears his goal, the kisses on her neck and shoulders uninterrupted, the soft fabric of her plain black bra like silk under his fingers as he finally manages to release the clasp, pushing her to lean back into the wall as she removes it and proceeds to throw it somewhere behind his back.

 

She can feel his heart beating madly against her palm; the fast paced thumping of the strong muscle palpable and reverberating on her fingertips as he continues to ogle at her brazenly, his lips slightly parted, releasing small pants visible in the otherwise cold air of the room. She bites her lip, a sudden bout of shyness bubbling up from somewhere within her chest under the heat of his blue –rimmed stare.

 

“You’re staring,” she tells him, her voice quiet as she swallows, raising his head to look into her eyes with a palm on his cheek, her fingers spread out over half his face, under his ear, his rough stubble chaffing the tender skin of her palm. He seems to be shaken out of his stupor the moment his irises connect with hers, an apologetic smile etching itself on his lips in response to the slight apprehension he detects in her eyes as he presses his chest against hers, kissing her cheek tenderly, the corner of her mouth. His hands are not idle for long, running up her stomach to press lightly against her breasts in a steady caress that has her breath hitching, a moan growing in the back of her throat as she feels his mouth on the spot below her ear, merely breathing harshly against her skin, his warm breath gusting over her flesh steadily. She can feel the beginnings of a head rush as she grabs the back of his skull, pulling him by his hair to get his attention, though not hard enough to hurt him.

 

“Peter, the bed” she manages to breath out, the sound stuck in her vocal cords, her voice throaty. He simply hums contentedly against her neck. She pulls on his hair harder.

 

“ _Peter_ …” she repeats, her voice infinitesimally stronger in the pathetic attempt of a threat. He laughs against her, the sound vibrating against her sternum as he grabs a hold of her buttocks and lifts her up, her legs instinctually wrapping around his waist as he turns her away from the wall and moves them further into his room, mumbling “bossy” against her skin affectionately as he drops her carefully on the mattress of his double bed, pulling away from her to kick his shoes and socks off, helping her do the same with hers before crawling atop her, her legs framing his hips to accommodate him better, his weight anchoring her to the bed pleasantly.

 

Part of his mind still has trouble wrapping itself around the idea that she is indeed lying under him here, now, willing to forgive him for everything he’s done. It’s the same part of him that wonders if he’ll end up waking in the morning to rumpled sheets and a cold bed, wonders if this is just a trick of his cruel imagination, a subconscious self punishment for his long list of crimes against the one person he’s wanted to protect from himself.  But he looks at her, his body propped up on his hands, framing her head, hair spread out like a blond halo around her face that makes her look ethereal (he’d say otherworldly if it didn’t have such connotations), and she’s looking up at him with such trust and heat in her gaze that it makes him want to put the world at her feet, grow roots in this universe to affix himself in it, capture this moment in time, the world and its problems forever outside the door.

 

She sees the darkness return to his eyes momentarily, wonders if that is how he constantly sees her as she tries to reassure him with touch, her hands spread out on the hard planes of his back. She has never been good at putting her feelings into words (which is something she believes they have in common), has always been a little inept at offering comfort, awkward in sharing herself with others, but she wants to make an effort for him, wants to show him just how deep he’s managed to slip under her skin, piece by piece, deep enough to hurt. Wants him to understand that the reason for the heartache was that she couldn’t let him go, that she’d wanted to be selfish – for once – and keep him to herself, wants him to realize that she has forgiven him, perhaps since the very moment he summoned enough courage to tell her, to her face, what he’d done. She’d just needed time, and to get over herself to see that he too was in pain. She grabs his biceps then, squeezing lightly, affectionately, trying to show him, without words, that she understands. It has always been easier between them that way; words just seem to make things a lot more complicated.

 

He answers by sitting back on his haunches, his legs folded underneath him as he runs his hands down her sides, bringing his fingers to the waist of her black pants as he proceeds to unclasp them, pulling them slowly down her legs as she raises her hips from the bed to aid him before sitting up to reach for the button and zipper of his jeans, scraping her nails against the rough, dark fabric, the sensation running through both of them, their skins hypersensitive in expectation. He startles when she runs her fingers through the path of fine hair trailing down from his navel, his breath stuttering in his lungs as she motions for him to stand at the edge of the bed, the material falling limply to the ground, their underwear following swiftly thereafter. 

 

The rest becomes nothing but skin and touch, and sensation, breath and sound, intertwined limbs and the nigh imperceptible creaking of the bed underneath.

 

She has him gathered to her, her breathing muffled on his shoulder, her nails digging igneous trails into the flesh of his back as he lies above her, braced on his forearms, his head buried somewhere on the pillow right beside her head, his scruffy cheek scraping against hers, his heaving breaths and groans music in her ears, her legs fastened securely around his waist, heels digging insistently into the rolling muscles of his lower back in time with the unwavering rhythm of their hips, the consistent convergence of their iliac crests unleashing the storm within her as wave after wave of raging heat crashes into her and reverberates through him, until they lie spent in each others embrace, a sweaty mass of heavy limbs and entangled emotion.

 

His strength falters, his arms refusing to hold his weight as he lies atop her, his head on her chest, his warm breath ghosting over the cooling beads of sweat on her skin as she runs her hands through his matted hair, down his cheeks, lying unmoving in the quiet darkness of the chilly room, the only sounds those produced by their straining lungs as they fight to regain their breaths, their hearts still wild in the cage of their chests. No words are necessary, no words are enough, and so they communicate by touch and skin, and shared breath. The slight peck he presses against the side of her breast speaking more of him than any amount of words she’s ever heard.

 

“Will you be here in the morning?” he asks softly, no more than a mumble in the dregs of consciousness he manages to maintain through the pull of a sleep that threatens to drown him, their limbs tired, a delicious ache settling in.

 

She smiles at him in the dark, a real smile, one that she hasn’t displayed in so long that her face hurts, a small tear of affection making its way down the side of her temple to drown into the strands of her hair. He overwhelms her, confuses her with his complexities, makes her wonder how he can hide so well that damaged, insecure personality of the boy that was stolen so long ago behind the strongest façade. But then, she guesses that just makes him the same as her. 

 

She’s not going anywhere. She’s home.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
